


There’s a Truth in Your Eyes

by Pants (Smarty_Pants)



Series: Trapped in a Romcom [3]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, Angst, M/M, Notting Hill, Trapped in a romcom, art gallery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 14:09:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21180719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smarty_Pants/pseuds/Pants
Summary: Whoopsidaisies? David and Patrick are again trapped in a film they did not choose. It would probably be best not to tell anyone about this. I mean, you can tell yourself sometimes, but don't worry . . . you won't believe it.





	There’s a Truth in Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to anyone who ever listened when I said again and again that I was almost done with this silly mashup. I appreciate everyone who reads and writes Schitt's Creek fics.
> 
> All my respect and affection forever to Daniel Levy who created my favorite show and characters. I love him just as he is. 
> 
> I guess I also owe some thanks and a big “I’m sorry” to Richard Curtis, who actually wrote Notting Hill.

Patrick Brewer stands on a busy sidewalk outside the Rose Gallery Park Slope, in one of the hippest hipster neighborhoods in Brooklyn. It’s pretty obvious that there is a special reception—_red carpet event?—_happening inside. Famous and semi-famous, sparkly and shimmering, artsy people and wannabes are arriving in limos and Uber Black cars and—_whoa, is that an actual Kardashian? _

Patrick knows he doesn’t belong here, that it will only be a few minutes before he is found out as a fraud, an impostor, someone who _definitely _is not important enough to be in this crowd.

And—no surprise, he is immediately stopped by security.

“Umm. Yes, I was looking for David Rose.”

“Name?” the not-unkind-looking gatekeeper asks, scanning the guest list.

“Patrick Brewer, but. . .” She runs her finger down the paper looking for his name. Does it once more. Frowns.

“Does Mr. Rose know you are coming?” she asks, looking at Patrick from over her cateye half-frames.

“No, no. No, he doesn’t.” Patrick shoves his hands in the front pockets of his basic blue jeans. He is wearing a brown suede jacket, untucked white oxford shirt and white tennis shoes. In no way is he dressed well enough to talk his way into this party.

“I can’t let you in then, sir. This is a closed event,” she says, looking past him.

“Oh right.” Patrick says. “I mean, I am a friend. I’m not a lunatic but— no you basically . . .”

“ . . . can't let you in,” she finishes for him.

At that moment, Patrick sees David, walking out the front door of the gallery in a black cashmere jacket perfectly fitted to his tall, lean frame, a soft-looking gray shirt, skinny black tie and black jeans. His lush black hair is swept high through some wonder of a gravity-defying product and he’s wearing sunglasses. A cluster of people are around him, asking questions, fussing over him.

These days, people surround David Rose almost everywhere he goes. As the hottest bachelor in the New York art world, he makes the online gossip columns regularly. His striking looks and aloof demeanor don’t hurt when it comes to his social media profile, although his dating life remains a mystery. Lately, there has been some buzz about a new E! reality show about his life (working title: _Coming Up Roses_)_. _

This life—this cold, dazzling life—is exactly what David has curated. It’s everything he thought he wanted and nothing he’d expected it to be.

A few photographers approach David on the street to snap photos. Patrick immediately turns his face away, remembering what happened last time they were together—the paparazzi photos that wrecked everything. David walks a few steps, sees Patrick. His face registers surprise—eyebrows raised. It’s much more than a simple smile, and for a moment it’s something slightly pained. Like Patrick being there is _complicated_ for David.

Then he does a small wave and walks over. “Hi,” he says, exhaling the word. “This is . . . ah . . . ”

“Yes, I’m sorry to just show up like this. I— umm, found out you were opening your latest gallery here. In Brooklyn. Where I live.” Patrick searches David’s face, looking for meaning.

“I was going to call. . . but I didn't think you’d want to . . .” David trails off and sighs. “This night isn’t going well. I’m not sure why I agreed to host this event. This was a mistake.”

“Absolutely,” answers Patrick, not really understanding but understanding enough to know that he shouldn’t have come. Whatever they have been to one another—or could have been—it suddenly feels too late. The script has already been written.

“You’re clearly very busy,” Patrick finally mutters, pained. He turns to go.

“Wait, wait— there are things to say.” David lays his hand on Patrick’s forearm and feels himself drawn into the warm chocolate of Patrick’s eyes, wide and searching. “Please, Patrick. Go inside. Drink champagne. There’s lots of champagne.”

***

Amazingly, Patrick isn’t having the worst time. He’s been at the party for over an hour and he’s had several glimpses of David from across the room through the crowds of cocktail-sippers. At one point, David even caught his eye, wiggled his eyebrows and smiled his small half-smile. So, that is far better than no David. Some David is always better than no David.

But Patrick isn’t any closer to saying what needs to be said. Every time he thinks he might be able to work his way close to David, he watches him be whisked away into another group of beautiful, important-looking people—and Patrick is reminded again why he just can’t compete.

Instead he wanders by himself around the large spacious gallery, airy, appointed in a soothing sand-and-stone aesthetic. Everything in the place screams _David_ to him; it is very clear who envisioned the space. Every piece of artwork is placed in just the right way—and it is less like a place of business as it is an _immersive_ _experience._

Patrick seeks out the quieter corners of the gallery where the party hasn’t reached, nursing his third whiskey and feeling warm. As he wanders past a table in the hall, he picks up a flyer for an upcoming exhibit opening at the end of the month, noting that once again the press will be invited to swoon over David and his success. Patrick sinks down into a luxurious black couch accented with white silk pillows. He runs his fingertips over the very touchable fabric and closes his eyes, breathing deeply. Everything around him reflects _David-David-David_. . .

“. . . _David Rose—_you are looking _fresh_ these days,” he hears a sneering voice creep from around the edge of a pole behind him. Patrick can’t see who is speaking. He knows it isn’t that horrible Sebastien from David’s past, but it may as well be. The voice drips with sex and sarcasm and self-hate. 

“Mmmmm.” And there is David, with his soft murmur that means neither yes nor no—or sometimes both. Patrick starts off the couch, wanting to move toward the sound of David’s voice. But, as the conversation continues, he stops and sinks back down.

“So, who was that lost little man I saw you with outside? Oooh. Poor soul. He has been looking positively adrift all night. Did you misplace _an_ _accountant_, David?” the voice teased.

“Oh, that’s. . .” David hesitates. Patrick listens closely. “No one . . . it’s no one. Just some guy from the past. I don't know what he’s doing here. Just kind of an awkward situation.”

Patrick’s heart drops to the floor. Every word is like drop of acid burning his skin. _No one. It’s no one._ _Just some guy._

He waits until he is sure he can leave without David seeing him, then slips out the door into the cold night air. He wipes his wet face roughly with his sleeve and walks up the street as fast as he can. The moment of hope is gone. He and David are living in different worlds. Probably they always have been.

***

A few weeks later, Patrick is in the café where he and David once spent time together—back when things were starting to get good. Or at least back when he’d thought maybe things could be good between them.

He’d gotten a message asking if they could meet, but somehow he still wasn’t sure David would come. He isn’t sure of much anymore when it comes to David. Patrick can’t forget the words he heard David say at the gallery when he didn’t know Patrick was listening.

Patrick settles in at his table, starts to take a sip of tea and looks up to see—_whoosh_—there he is, breezing in, in a shiny leather sweater, soft cotton pants and black high-top sneakers. _Gorgeous,_ Patrick can’t stop himself from thinking. And just like every time he sees David, it takes a few minutes to slow his pulse to a reasonable rate.

“Hi,” says David breathily.

“Hello,” answers Patrick.

“You disappeared,” David says. “That night. At the gallery.”

“Yes—I’m sorry— I had to leave. . . I didn’t want to disturb you,” Patrick says, looking down.

“Okayyy,” David cocks an eyebrow quizzically, taking in Patrick’s blank expression and unwillingness to meet his eyes. “Well,” he tries hesitantly, “how have you been?”

“Fine. Everything much the same.” Patrick plays with his cup, fiddles with his spoon, adds sugar he doesn’t really want. “Whereas you. . . I’ve watched in wonder. You really are the toast of New York, David. I always knew you would be.”

“Oh no,” David says in a small voice. He inspects his cuticles. “It’s all nonsense, believe me. I had no idea how much nonsense it all was— but nonsense it all is. . .” He looks back up.

Patrick’s gaze meets David’s and both men feel a jolt. Patrick sees something open and revealing and yet guarded and fearful on David’s expressive face. He feels the familiar ache of not having this man in his life, in his bed. And of never being able to figure out how to be the man that gets to have this man. _Why can’t this be a story where love—or something close to it—wins?_

“I don’t really know much about the nonsense of fame and celebrity and attention,” Patrick admits. “But, David—you have done much more than that. Your gallery space is exquisite. You’ve created something truly winsome. Congratulations, man.”

David looks down, his cheeks reddening beneath his dark stubble.

“Well,” he says in his soft breathy voice. “So, I don’t know if you know I’m going back to Chicago for awhile and I’ll be opening several galleries there and I— I’m really just off now. But I . . I thought I’d give this to you . . . ” David trails off. He holds out a large flat wrapped parcel.

“Thank you. Shall I. . .”

“No, don’t open it yet,” David says. “I’ll be embarrassed.”

“Okay. Well, thank you. I don’t know what it’s for. But thank you anyway.”

“I actually had it in my apartment here and—now I’m leaving. I just thought you’d like it. . . but, when it came to it, I didn’t know how to call you—having behaved so badly, twice.”

Patrick gives David a confused look. He considers their history. From his perspective, he was the one who had twice behaved badly. There was the day when Rachel showed up at the barbecue. He really should have kept trying to get David to listen and understand. And then there was the fistfight with Sebastien . . . Patrick didn’t actually regret that but he did regret walking away from David when it was over.

_Regrets._ Patrick had asked David—after the day they had kissed and the photographers were suddenly there, when the story had made it into that online gossip column—if he had any regrets. And David answered in an off-hand way that images online last forever and so that he would indeed regret this forever.

“Right,” Patrick had thought, his heart shredded. “And I will do the opposite, if it’s all right by you.”

So. Patrick. David. Back to this bulky parcel in front of them, the scene unfolding.

“It’s been just sitting there,” David says, looking at Patrick sheepishly. “But then you came to the gallery, so I figured . . . the thing is . . . the thing is . . . ”

“What’s the thing?” At this point, Patrick feels quite lost in the story. He can’t figure out what David is trying to say.

Just then Roland, the very annoying café owner comes over to chat. “Heyyy Patrick! How have you been? Dave? Is that you? Wow, haven’t seen you two together in . . .”

“Don’t even think about it. Go away immediately,” Patrick tells him.

“Right. Sorry,” Roland says and leaves.

“You were saying. . .” Patrick encourages David to continue.

“Yes,” David says. “The thing is . . . I have to go away today but I wondered, if I didn’t, whether you might let me see you a bit. Or a lot maybe. And you could see if you could . . . _like me again_.”

Patrick looks at David, carefully taking it all in but honestly puzzled.

“But that day at the gallery . . . ” Patrick begins. “That person asked you who I was—and you just dismissed me out of hand. I heard you.”

David looks at him aghast. Some things are finally adding up. Could this—everything—just be a big misunderstanding? Almost like they are again trapped in some kind of very messed-up romcom? But what sadistic writer would give them this many twisted plot points? _Ugh_.

“You’d expect me to tell the truth about my life—_and my friends_—to the biggest asshole in New York?”

“David. Look— I’m a capable, take charge kind of guy. Not often in and out of love.” David nods, looks hopeful. Patrick exhales, thinking hard.

“And . . .?”

“And so,” he says, wistfully. “Can I just say _no_ to your kind request and leave it at that?” 

Patrick tenses, hearing his own words spilling out of his mouth. They are all wrong. Really, he wants so much to shout _yes_, his body is screaming _yes yes yes_ but some other force is compelling him to turn away from David. He can’t take the risk.

And David is crushed. He swallows the lump in his throat. When he’s able to speak it comes out soft, quiet, so quiet. He breathes out the words. “Yes, that’s fine. Of course. I— you know— of course. I’ll just be getting along then. . . Nice to see you.”

“The truth is—” Patrick feels he must explain more, “with you, I’m in real danger.” David looks stricken.

Patrick continues, “My relatively inexperienced heart would, I fear, not recover if I was once again . . . cast aside, which I would absolutely expect to be. You are too much for me to take. I can feel you everywhere in this city. You’d go most certainly and I’d be—well, fucked, basically.”

David tries to listen but all he really hears is the familiar refrain of _you are too much_ _you are too much you are too much. _Something he’s heard so many times before. “I see,” he pauses, trying to catch his breath. “That really is a real ‘no,’ isn’t it?”

“David, I’m a simple guy,” says Patrick. “You know I’m from Schitt’s Creek. I thought I could make it in Chicago at the university—turns out that was a lot. Then I thought I could make it in New York as a business consultant. That’s been a lot. Too much. Really, this big city, this life, it’s not me. That’s you, David. Everyone here knows who you are. You’re a big deal. My own mother has trouble remembering my name.”

“Okay. Fine. Fine. Good decision,” David stumbles around his words, feeling now that all he wants is to get away, far away. He sways, feels like he might faint.

Patrick unexpectedly takes his hand and that warm touch grounds David again. He could drown in Patrick’s eyes. David knows he has to try to reach out one last time, with the little bit of hope he has left, to have Patrick understand what is in his heart.

“The fame thing, celebrity thing, money thing—isn’t really real, you know,” he whispers. “None of it.”

David stands up and Patrick also rises to meet the taller man face to face. They are still holding hands and they look into each other’s eyes. For a long moment, neither says a word. There are no sounds except café sounds: the clinking of cups and spoons and friends laughing in the background. An acoustic guitar plays softly over the ceiling speaker.

“Don’t forget,” David says, his voice almost a whisper. “I’m also just a guy. Standing in front of a guy. Asking him to love him.”

Patrick stands perfectly still, looks at David, saying nothing. Slowly, he lets go of David’s hand and drops his own to his side. David nods quickly, wipes a tear. He leans forward and kisses Patrick on the cheek, his stubble rubbing against the edge of Patrick’s mouth.

“Goodbye.”

David turns and leaves. Walking away from Patrick. It’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.

***

Three days later, Patrick sits at a diner with Ray, Ronnie, Bob and Gwen in a less posh part of the city. The four surround him, their plates of half-eaten breakfast foods mostly ignored. It is as though they have just called to order a meeting of the Patrick-Brewer-support-club. Patrick doesn’t mind.

“What do you think?” he asks his friends. “Good move?”

Bob responds quickly. “Good move. When all is said and done, he’s nothing special.” Patrick knows that Bob means well, but he feels damaged by those words. Nothing could be more true to him than the fact that David Rose is special.

“Good decision,” agrees Gwen. “All artists and art dealers are mad as snakes.”

“Ronnie, what do you think?” Patrick leans in to hear her opinion.

“Never met him, never want to.”

“Perfect,” says Patrick. “Ray?”

“He said he wanted to go out with you— _that_ _David Rose_?”

“Yes—I mean, sort of . . . we had a lot of crossed wires.”

“That’s nice.”

“What?”

“Well, you know, anybody saying they want to go out with you is pretty great, isn’t it?”

Deep down this is all Patrick really wants. To talk about David, what he said, what it all means, how he is special. Patrick grasps ahold of this branch. “It was very sweet,” he agrees. “Even though he’s a wealthy and extremely eligible bachelor from the New York elite. . ”

Ray sighs audibly.

“. . . he said to me that he was just a guy, standing in front of another guy, asking him to love him.”

_Oh._

He hears it when he repeats the words. The others take it in and Patrick feels the attitude in the booth shift. Ronnie fixes Patrick with a challenging stare. Bob puts his arm around Gwen and they snuggle in closer together. Ray for his part looks a little teary. Patrick’s eyes dart around the table from face to face.

“Oh _fuuuuuck_,” he says. “I’ve made the wrong decision, haven’t I?”

They all look at him. Ray nods big.

“Bob, how fast is your car?” Patrick says, already out of his seat and striding towards the door.

***

Patrick rushes to the gallery entrance and sees that there is clearly another big event taking place. He remembers the flyer about the performance art exhibit opening today. “Excuse me,” Patrick asks, “Where’s the press conference?”

“Are you an accredited member of the press?” the gallery representative asks.

“Yes,” Patrick says, flashing a card.

“That’s a Rose Video membership card, sir.”

“That’s right. I work for their in-house magazine. ‘Movies are our business.’”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“What– do you really think that the Roses don’t want to feature their eldest son and his successful New York gallery in their magazine? Are you the one who is going to tell Moira Rose why the article on her son’s accomplishments could not be included?”

“Of course, sir. I mean, of course not, sir. Down the hall then. It’s in the Apothecary Room. I’m afraid you’re very late.”

Patrick runs down the hall, searching for David. He finds the room and enters. It’s a huge open space full of journalists, cameras, and online art bloggers. David gives press conferences very rarely, but since this is a major exhibit followed by the announcement of the new Chicago galleries, it’s important. He sits at a table at the end of the room, beside Stevie, his sometime PR rep and always best friend, fielding questions.

“How much longer are you staying in New York then?” a reporter asks.

“No time at all,” says David. “I fly out tonight.” He seems sad, Patrick thinks, not daring to hope that could be about him.

“Which is why we need to finish this up now,” Stevie says, sensing David’s mood and taking care of him as she always does. “Final questions.” She points to a journalist she knows.

“Is your decision to take off to Chicago anything to do with your on-again, off-again romance with the artist Sebastien Raine?”

“Absolutely not,” says David hotly.

“Do you believe the rumors about him and the young girls?”

“It’s really not my business anymore,” David answers. “Though I will say, from my experience, that rumors about Sebastien . . . do tend to be true.” The reporters type away on their iPads and laptops. “I will not be seeing Mr. Raine again,” he adds for emphasis.

The next question comes from someone right next to Patrick. “There were some surprising photos taken of you and a gentleman which got released online a few months back. So what happened there?”

“He was just a friend— I think we’re still friends,” says David in a melancholy tone.

“Yes, thank you,” Stevie says. She scans the crowd, ready to wrap things up when she sees the one person that she knows _sees David for all he is_ and _likes him just as he is._ Recognizing Patrick with his hand up and pointing straight at him, Stevie calls on “the gentleman in the blue shirt.”

“Mr. Rose,” says Patrick, from behind the gaggle of reporters. “Are there any circumstances in which you two might be more than just friends?”

David hears the voice and whips his head up. He sees now that it’s Patrick. His eyes well up. “I hoped there might be,” he says, choking on a tiny sob. “But no. I’m assured there aren’t.”

“And what would you say . . . ” Patrick begins.

“Sir, no,” says Stevie grinning her evil Stevie grin. “It’s just one question per person.”

David turns and glares at her. “No, let him. Ask away. You were saying?”

“Yes, I just wondered whether if it turned out that this . . . person . . . ” Another journalist helpfully whispers to Patrick, “His name is Brewer.”

“Thanks. I just wondered if Mr. Brewer realized he’d been a complete idiot and got down on his knees and begged you to reconsider, whether you would. . . _reconsider_.”

“Yes,” David says, twisting his mouth into a smile. “I’m pretty sure I would.”

“That’s very good news. The readers of the _Rose Video In-House Magazine_ will be absolutely delighted.”

David whispers something to Stevie. “Okay, Twyla, if you’d like to ask your question again?” Twyla Sands of the online publication, _F&NArt_, responds, “Mr. Rose, how long are you intending to stay here in New York?”

“I’m not staying in New York.”

Patrick’s face drops. Of course, he was hoping to hear that David had changed his mind, that he planned to stay _indefinitely_. In fact, Patrick is almost certain those were supposed to be his next words. It feels a bit jarring to have them erased from the scene, like David had just rejected what someone else had written for him to say.

David Rose is off script and seems to be speaking directly from his heart. Patrick listens, not knowing what comes next.

“In fact, I will NOT be staying in New York nor will I be going back to Chicago,” David says, his voice growing stronger. “I’m– I’m very interested in learning more about life in a very specific small town. I’m not sharing the name of the place where I’m going but I am hoping that I may be able to spend time there with someone special.”

David looks at Patrick. He nods. They both smile.


End file.
